


Dreamin rotten dreams

by Liliriu



Category: Dream Cycle - H. P. Lovecraft, Herbert West - Reanimator - H. P. Lovecraft, LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Comedy, Gay Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:29:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27607664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liliriu/pseuds/Liliriu
Summary: He thought about calling Herbert. It was not that there was much affinity between them, but he could stand him. He was nice to look at, as well; had bright blue eyes like a baby, but with something pleasantly unsettling about them, a hint of dancing shadows. Perhaps shadows casted by chimeras, who were hiding inside.I'm not putting warnings to this. It has both Randolph and Herbert, and it is exactly what you think, whatever that is. I think.
Relationships: Narrator (Herbert West - Reanimator)/Herbert West, Randolph Carter/Herbert West
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	Dreamin rotten dreams

Randolph lighted yet another cigarette, smoked half of it and put it out in the overfilled ashtray. He did not have enough enthusiasm even for that. The room was full of smoke, as if the clouds outside had made their way inside. The room was also a bit dusty, as if the ash in the ashtray had made its way everywhere. The walls were covered with his pencil sketches. Mostly strange, fantastical, often nightmarish chimeras. There were also some covers of magazine issues where his stories had been published. There was a body mirror in the corner, and he looked at it. The man looking back was handsome, but it was not him. No more than it was anyone else, at least. What could had made him recognize this face as his own? He did not know. There was a phrase scribbled over the mirror: “those reflections are pointless.” And another one below: "dreamin rotten dreams."

The electricity had been off the whole morning, and it had killed his mood. He had not been able to work in the cold and the darkness, yet had not allowed himself to go back to sleep. He had better days and worse days, or so he told himself. Recently he had less and less good days. The thing was, that there was this part of his brain that was like a factory of marvels, that was the part where all those amazing chimeras came from, and sometimes it was locked. Today it was. More often than not it was.

He could go out and find something – someone – to fuck, but that would mean interacting with people, too much effort. He had received an invitation to a party, earlier that day. He barely could remember the names of those so-called friends. He was not sure if they remembered his. Probably were short of guests. He had not yet given an answer. He thought that he would had enjoyed the company of other people, if at least some of the time, their minds could produce chimeras like his own did. He thought about calling Herbert. It was not that there was much affinity between them, but he could stand him. He was nice to look at, as well; had bright blue eyes like a baby, but with something pleasantly unsettling about them, a hint of dancing shadows. Perhaps shadows casted by chimeras, who were hiding inside. If he could gather the energy, he would call him.

***

“I’m going out for a while, to have a drink with Randolph,” Herbert told Dan.

“Who?”

“The pulp fiction writer.”

“Ah, that one… Have fun.”

Herbert was sure that Dan did not remember. He shrugged and got out.

***

His old friend looked older than the last time they had met. When had it been? At least a few months ago, maybe a year. Randolph was about the same age as himself, and yet, Herbert was well aware that his own face remained young and fresh – Dan reminded him of the fact quite often. Randolph, on the other hand, seemed like he could use some moisturizer. Though he was still tall and handsome, even if his hair needed a cut and his body was too thin, his cheeks having completely sank. He was dressed fully in black, like the caricature of a tortured poet. Herbert realized that, probably, this was exactly what the man believed himself to be.

Randolph welcomed him to the apartment, which was spacious and finely decorated, yet a mess. Herbert gave some idle chat, as Randolph poured both of them some whiskey. The shelves were full of bottles, as if he had never heard about the Prohibition. Which he probably hadn’t, or at least, was rich enough to regard the matter irrelevant. For a moment, Herbert considered asking about his suppliers, just out of curiosity. But Randolph would had probably interpreted that as personal interest, and given him an extensive lesson on the acquirement of alcohol within the United States’ borders in modern times, which Herbert did not care about. He had more important things to do than getting dazed.

Instead, he decided to satisfy his curiosity about the state of the apartment. He casually commented on the inefficiency of servants those days.

“Ahh… wouldn’t know. Fired mine.” Randolph shrugged and smiled a smile which seemed to have less to do with the words he was saying, and more with the alcohol already having some influence. Herbert assumed that his current glass was far from being the first he had had that night.

“Why?” he asked.

“Sometimes they wanted to make small talk.” This was not said as an insinuation, or a sarcastic remark, but as an honest answer. Herbert remained silent for a while, unsure what to respond.

“You do know that you can clean by yourself, right?” he finally asked, tired of playing polite.

“Ah, didn’t think about it,” answered Randolph, apparently unaware to the question’s impoliteness.

By then, Herbert was truly left without anything to say, and Randolph did not seem to consider it necessary. They kept drinking in silence for a while, as Randolph stared at him in a way that most people would had thought to be inappropriate. Herbert was not sure at which point had Randolph made the inevitable transition from looking to touching. Faintly, at the beginning, almost absent mindedly, his fingers played with a lock of Herbert’s hair. Soon enough, they were traveling over his temple and neck. For a fraction of a second, Herbert wondered whether Randolph was contemplating to strangle him.

“Have been missing me?” he asked with a sweet smile.

“Have been bored,” replied Randolph. Another honest answer.

It was pointless to try having a conversation. Not that Herbert had expected much in that area. “Come here,” he told Randolph.

***

Already naked at bed, Herbert examined his companion’s body more carefully. He had not been wrong about the man being too thin; Randolph was clearly not eating properly. Not a big surprise, taking into account the amounts of alcohol that he apparently drank. Yet despite his thinness, there was also no visible musculature, as if lately he was not exercising – or leaving the apartment – that much; plausibly, the farthest he would go was to the nearest public garden, when there was no Herbert available.

Not that he was complaining; even if Randolph’s mind did not seem not to be completely… there, Herbert still found him to be quite delightful. The unhealthy treatment made for a body very pleasant to both look at and touch, an effect which was reinforced by the skin’s almost complete transparency. His thighs were something not from this world; narrow and soft, fully white except for a bluish hint of veins here and there, and a faint shadow of hair covering their inner sides. Herbert held the tender flesh and licked it carefully. It was warm and very nice against his tongue, and he kept advancing from there to the erect cock. He was a bit surprised that Randolph had managed to put it up so easily, but now he was certainly not complaining; perhaps the man was less broken than he seemed, after all. It did not really matter; what did, at the end? Randolph’s moans were waves of hot music, and Herbert allowed himself to flow.

And when Randolph penetrated his body, he remembered what was so good about doing it with him. It was different than with Dan, of course. Randolph did not have the same strength, and yet he did have something else, a certain roughness; it was as if Dan was always afraid to break him, and Randolph was eager to do just that. Herbert assumed that this must be exciting for Randolph, to fuck someone even smaller and more delicate than him; at least the writer was tall and had broad hands, unlike Herbert’s fragile ones. All this also did not matter; it was good to get it, and after some point, it did not even matter who was he getting it from. There was just the joy of his flesh’s limits being broadened, almost torn apart, of his very consciousness being torn apart, so to transcend common experience, to collapse into infinity.

***

Randolph leaned his head on Herbert’s chest an instant after coming, and fell asleep just like that. Herbert ran his fingers through the silky red hair, considering the situation. He had agreed to Randolph’s sudden invitation, thinking that the man would be the ideal subject for his experiments: a healthy body, a sharp mind (even if usually wasted on frivolities), horny enough to allow Herbert to lead him exactly to the state in which he currently was. Now… he was not that sure, anymore. Randolph had not sounded very eloquent to him that night. Yet people did not go from smart to stupid so easily; his apparent stupidity might be but a temporal effect of the alcohol, and actually, probably just a form of apathy, rather than actual stupidity. The state of his body was not good, but neither did it seem beyond repair; his heartbeat was normal, he breathed properly, and had just proved himself capable of fucking properly. And if he failed… well, what was just another failure. It was decided, then. Herbert slowly got up, and went to get the bag where his tools were kept.

***

The ex-corpse’s first movements consisted in a sequence of blinks. Afterwards, he stared at the spot of his arm where he had just got the reanimating injection. He thought for a moment, and asked, “what had just happened to me?”

Herbert explained it to him.

“Ah… I should speak with Richard, he will know what to do. If I could only dream again.”

***

To the date, Dr. Herbert West has not been able to repeat the experiment on humans, yet has earned his place in the history of medicine. Randolph Carter, as well, has obtained world fame, as the first ever undead horror writer – and a prolific one, also. He is still incapable of dreaming, and therefore unable to meet his old friend, the artist Richard Pickman. He regrets this fact, not for being still in need of Pickman’s advice – he has managed by himself just fine – but since he thinks that it could had been quite cool for his stories to have an undead illustrator.


End file.
